Stigmata
by saoulbete
Summary: She's never believed in religion, after all, why would any god let the world suffer? But she could worship at the altar of Jane all day, and now that she's reached out and touched faith, maybe she gets it after all.


a/n really don't know where the hell this came from. It started as me realising that no one had done a fic based upon the idea of good ol' Catholic school going Jane has...well, the stigmata etched on her permanently, and if Joe Grant cheated off her catechism test than obviously she knows a little bit about her faith, but then it kinda spun into...this. Also note that while I worked for the catholic church, and am baptised as such, I grew up anglican and well, if I gaffed at all in the actual ritual stuff, I apologise.

* * *

She braced herself for what she knew was coming, bowing her head in the darkened church. It doesn't stop her from jumping, though, when the first echoing crash from the narthex doors echos through the sanctuary, hardly absorbed by the dozens of bodies therein. There's a calming hand on her hip, and it helps, ever so slightly, and puts her even more on edge. She wasn't sure why Maura agreed to come. Maura was the anti-religion, and it was odd to be here, sitting between Maura and her mother, flanked on either side by Tommy and Frankie, closing her eyes as the banging continued a second, a third time. It was expected this time.

She bows her head and mumbles along with the almost monotone chant of _thanks be to god_ every time the priest stops in the slow ascent from the back of the church to the alter, pretends she cares about the candle being placed in it's holster, and rubs mindless at the middle of her palms around the candle in her hands, left thumb digging into right palm until it feels like her knuckles are about to break, before her position reverses.

She's never liked St. Catherine's. It's an old, ancient church. The sort that still had a proper narthex, and nave and transepts, and she wonders how she's even managed to retain the obscure terminology for the various parts of the church. This is not the church she grew up in. St. Agnes' was much smaller, with the pews in a three-quarter circle around the altar, and felt much more like _home_ than this place did. This was where the Rizzoli clan celebrated Christmas and Easter, the only two times that Jane managed to listen to her mother and show up for once. Mostly because midnight and eight PM were far easier to make than eight in the morning on a Sunday.

But she bends her head and sings along with the rest of the congregation as _ O Sacred Head Sore Wounded_ drones out as the acolytes dutifully light every single damn candle in the place, surprisingly well lit for just how _dark_ it is with no lights on. She doesn't like the dark much. She's taken to sleeping with the lights on, preferring it to the utter blackness that invades her in the dark. And there's that calming hand on her hip, reminding her that everything is going to be ok.

Maura, for her part, is entranced. She's never seen the point in religion. Religion was believing in something that couldn't be proved, just because someone else told you you should. She'd never seen the points in saints, and arbitrary reasons for going to hell for doing things that were simply natural – although she had to agree with Leviticus in that wearing that blended fabrics should be a sin. She was familiar enough with the various religions of the world to show up and be respectful, but she had never believed in any of them. After all if there were a god-or gods, or any sort of supreme being, how could they allow the suffering of the world?

But the sheer ritual of the act – it was fascinating. And she had to admit the old cathedral was absolutely gorgeous bathed in nothing but candlelight. Tipping the candle in her hand so that Jane could light her own and pass the light on to Angela, it felt like something absolutely fascinating. The calm serenity of a quiet chapel, listening to the lectern read by candlelight, about the belief behind the formation of the earth, there was something soothing about the ritual of the act. Something calming about the way the whole congregation around her murmured responses to certain phrases that she was sure meant something.

And she could see Jane, dressed for once, in a dress – entirely at her mother's urging – digging into the scars in her palm, clearly uncomfortable. She tightened her reassuring grip on her friend's hip, watching as the white-knuckled grip of left hand on right loosened slightly. She found herself in a meditative mood, no doubt heightened by the feeling of ritual around her, drowning out the verses from the bible that she cared little about.

She had, at one point, researched the phenomena of stigmata, and looking up at the ornately inscribed cross hanging above the altar, she meditates on it again. Jane bore the physical wounds normally compared with stigmata. Scars through her palms. A scar on her side. Visual representation of Jane's sacrifice for others. She stands and sits when others do, following along and muttering the words of the psalms without particularly thinking about them, doing her best to fit in without actually taking part in the ceremony, her mind elsewhere.

She finds herself thinking of the core of the catholic faith. The idea of one man-one human man-who had found himself with a burden on his shoulders far more than any other man could dream of. The idea of one man being tasked with saving the world, and sacrificing himself to do so. And she wonders just how much Jane had paid attention in catholic school, how much the woman had taken in, and internalized. Because if nothing else, she had to admit, her friend had a damned martyr complex. Always willing to sacrifice herself first to save others.

She listened, half heartedly, to the story of God telling Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, as a test of faith, and wondered what Jane would give up – risk giving up, to prove she was good enough. It had been one thing to offer up her life for her fellow officers, for the job itself, but she wondered how deeply that martyrdom complex ran. Would Jane risk _her_ to save others? She's surprised to feel a hand tangle with hers, offering calm reassurance as they sat there, a gentle squeeze that told her all she needed to know. No, Jane was not Abraham, would not let anyone test her faith like that. If made to chose, she knew that she won out, and she took quiet reassurance in that, letting her thumb gently rub circles around the scar in the back of a palm.

She listened, half heartedly to the telling of the exodus, the parting of the red sea, knowing that she would blindly follow wherever Jane led. She wondered, idly, where she had become so complacent, so willing to let her friend guide her life. She had always been her own woman, but now, now she felt as though her best friend, at certain times, was a rock to guide her, willing to do whatever it took to see them through. She was sure that no matter what, her friend would part the seas to make sure she made it through safely, and she liked that about Jane, always willing to go to extremes to make sure everyone was safe.

She half payed attention to the reading from Isaiah, blinking in surprise at it, and just how much it resonated. The last time she and Jane had fought, the morning Jane had shot Doyle and strained the tenuous thread that held them together, it had been hell. For a brief moment in overwhelming wrath, she'd cast Jane off, hid her face from her friend at a time when they had both needed support. But now that they had made up, she was sure her steadfast love would never depart from Jane, and that she would be a covenant of peace for the afflicted, storm-tossed woman. She would do whatever it took to make sure Jane should not fear, and be there so that from terror, it shall not come to them.

She was surprised at herself, wondering if this was why people had faith. When verses written millenia ago still rang true today. She. Loved. Jane. She'd never tried to describe the feelings that welled up inside of her whenever she was near the detective, but now, now she knew what they were. She was going to be Jane's salvation, and Jane was going to be hers, and they were going to drink deep from the well of salvation. And she thought it odd, ironic, that she had come the realisation here, in a church of all places, someplace that she had rarely set foot in, preferring science to blind faith. But she knew that she could worship at the altar of Jane for the rest of her life, and she found herself tightening the grip she had on Jane's hand.

She enjoyed the small smile she got in return as they stood for the psalm after the reading, listening but not, to the call and response, as first one side of the church, and then the other, spoke the words. She was listening with rapt attention now to the reading from Ezekiel, not even noticing when Jane had pulled their entwined hands into her lap, enjoying the simple contact. Jane's name had been profaned, _Jane_ had been profaned, and she would sanctify the woman next to her, and Jane would remove her heart of stone and replace it with a heart of flesh.

She wonders if this was why people dutifully came every Sunday to church, listening to the readings, and applying them to their own lives. She didn't believe in a god that let people suffer, which is why she believed in Jane. Jane could be a force of nature, a force of wrath, a force of chaos and insanity, but overall, Jane was a source of selfless love, giving all of herself to the world to try and save it. And she would walk in the way of her own God and dwell in peace forever. She's suddenly very aware of just how close they are, and she turns to look at Jane, finally meeting the eye of the only deity she's ever wanted to believe in, and she watches as Jane blinks in surprise, and she knows that her reverie, her love must be written plainly on her face, showing through even in the candlelight.

There's an interminable time that passes, where they sit there, simply looking at each other, and she's only aware of what's going on when the organ begins to bleat out a song rising to a crescendo. "This is the best part." The voice of God whispers in her ear, and she stands, hands still entwined, as the lights slowly rise with the crescendo as the choir processes in to to the tune of a Gloria she thinks is by Kodaly. She can't help the little look of awe she as as the thurifer swings the incense in glorious figure eights, around a shoulder, making it look so utterly effortless, admiring the fine stitching on the cassocks a glorious resplendence of color, after the stark dull greys and purples of Lent, and she's reminded of Eliot – April was the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of dead land.

She can't help but smile at the collection of newborn children, lined up after a quick, to the point sermon about death and rebirth, about being reborn in the beauty of the redeemer. The way each little head squirms to avoid the water being poured on it, and as she follows along with the call and response of the parents, of the odd adult that had been queued up to be washed into the faith. And she knows, now, that since she has entered into this new covenant, her faith would give her life everlasting.

She is surprised when Jane stands as the ushers walk by, slowly marking each row to go up to the rail and receive communion, but only to let her mother and Frankie through before sitting back down. She quirked an eyebrow as she sat as well, never breaking her grip on Jane's hand. "I can't. Not after-" and she understands, and knows that she will always be the bread and wine for Jane. She knows that the twisted morals of catholicism would allow Jane to stand up there with the rest of her family, but she knew Jane better. Jane had broken all ten commandments – killed, took the lord's name in vain, and broke so many of the arbitrary rules that were set forth that she knew Jane considered herself too broken of a person to partake.

And she knows that she will offer Jane everything that is needed, and be manna from the heavens. She doesn't need to fix Jane because her God isn't truly broken. Scarred, yes, but no differently from the idol that hung above the altar, whose death and rebirth they were celebrating today. Her God, too, bore the same marks, had sacrificed herself for the same reasons. The only deity that mattered in her life had sacrificed herself so that the world – or at least Boston – through her might be saved.

The rest of the service is surprisingly short, and she's almost sad when it ends, recessing out to the Alleluias of _Jesus Christ is Risen Today_ and suddenly, she feels lost. It was one thing, inside the beautiful old cathedral, to recognize her emotions for what they were. It was another thing in the crisp spring air to do so, and as the narthex doors are flung open on the last _thanks be to god_ what had begun to become her triumphant holy day had suddenly had her questioning her faith.

They sat there for a long moment, watching everyone else file out through the various doors, before Jane stands, and she has no choice but to stand as well, since throughout this all, Jane's hand has never left hers. She finds herself being pulled along by Jane, in a hurry to get out of the church as quickly as possible, and they stop only long enough to say their goodbyes to the rest of the Rizzolis. "The service was beautiful, thank you for inviting me." It's curt, perfunctory, polite, and oh so true as she nods at Angela.

"It's a family tradition, sweetie, and you're family." There's something about the way the Rizzoli matron says that, that she _was _part of the family makes it suddenly hard to breathe around the lump in her throat. And somehow, she knows that Angela, that Frankie, that Tommy are willing to be disciples in her new formed faith. There hands remain entwined as they walk to her car, breaking only long enough for each to slip into their respective sides. There's a pause while Maura searches through her phone for one particular song in the nearly endless collection of music that she had, something that she rarely listened to, but that she thinks may become the founding hymn of this new covenant.

And as the first low notes of something that very much should have been left in the 80's bleat out through the stereo, her deity opens her mouth to make a sarcastic comment, before Jane _gets it._ And before she can put the car in gear, there's a steadying hand on hers, and she turns, and somehow, she can see the love, the reverie, the worship that she knows she has for Jane reflected back at her. And suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe for a moment, before her deity, being as omnipotent and benevolent as she was, tipped a head forward, and lips were on hers, and suddenly she was in a land of milk and honey, and while she had never believed in the idea of heaven before, she knew she had suddenly found it. The hand on hers doesn't leave it's position, even as she puts the car in gear, until she shifts their position so that she's the one clinging to her God instead of Jane clinging to her, knowing that while she had never been a believer before, now that she had reached out and touched faith, she was.


End file.
